“One of us has to be the voice of reason.”

“What would I do without you, Perry?”

Idle words. But they froze her on the inside. “Let’s hope we never have to find out.” This time she darted ahead and held the coach door open for him, forcing a teasing smile to her lips. “Shall we, sir?”

“Only if you don’t call me ‘sir’ again.”

***

The visit to the Fortescues was no less draining. Garrett straightened his coat as he hurried down the portico, Perry at his heels.

“Well, that went well,” Perry murmured.

Garrett reached out and jerked the door open. “After you.”

A long, slow look from those dark gray eyes. A ridiculous little game, but it eased the tension in his shoulders. He needed her for this. To help him forget the horrible way Lady Fortescue had started crying, those watery green eyes staring at him in silent condemnation, as if he hadn’t done enough to save her daughter.

He’d never been able to divorce himself from the burden of the job the way Lynch and some of the others managed, but today had been worse than usual, with every little fidgeting move Lady Fortescue made rustling her bombazine skirts in a way that prickled beneath his skin. It didn’t help that a part of him saw only prey when he looked at the poor widow.

“Three days Miss Fortescue’s been missing,” Garrett said, frustration leaching out of him, “and no one saw fit to mention it to us.”

Perry glanced at him as she sat. “Not unusual if her mother thought she’d run off with some man. I get the feeling Miss Fortescue was somewhat fast, judging by the list of potential beaus we have.”

“Lady Fortescue asked for Lynch.”

“Because Lynch is all they know,” Perry replied. “This transition period was unexpected, and you’re an unknown. That will change.”

“Mmm.” He stared out the window.

The next stop was the Earl of Brumley’s manor. It was a modest abode, by Echelon standards, on the outskirts of Kensington.

“Ten pounds says Brumley’s involved,” Garrett murmured under his breath as he knocked.

“On what do you base that theory?”

“He’s older, she’s younger. No doubt she attracts the eyes of other young blue bloods… Besides, years of experience in cases like these often prove the husband figure guilty.”

A frown worked over her brow. “I’ll take your bet,” she replied. “From what I recall of Brumley, I don’t think he had the capacity to do this.”

The moment they were ushered into the earl’s presence, Garrett realized he’d been mistaken. Brumley was seated behind his desk, wings of silver lining his hair. The minute they entered, he pushed away from the desk and then maneuvered his wheeled contraption out from behind it.

The craving virus could heal almost everything, but not amputation of the lower leg, it seemed. In the working classes, mechanical limbs were often grafted in place of an amputation, but this was the Echelon. Such a thing was considered to make one less than human, part machine and therefore with fewer rights. Brumley had evidently disdained such a mechanism.

“Lost it in the Crimea,” Brumley said stiffly, noting the direction of Garrett’s gaze. “How may I help you?”

The man’s abrupt manner spoke of years in the military, which was unusual. No doubt Brumley had been a younger son or cousin. Not expected to become earl.

The moment Garrett explained what they were there for, the earl’s entire mien changed.

“I…see,” he murmured, a distant, hurt expression crossing his face. Whatever he’d felt for Miss Keller, there had been affection and respect. The earl was no fool, however. His gaze sharpened. “Who?”

“We’re uncertain as of yet—”

“Hence your appearance here,” Brumley said. He turned and rolled to the decanter in the corner to pour himself a blud-wein. “As you can see, the chances of me being involved are limited. At the least, I’d need servants to carry me, and I could barely travel to the factory itself without a fully staffed carriage.”

“Do you know who might have wished her harm? Or how she could have turned up at the factory?” Garrett asked.

“Amelia was…not the sort to make enemies.” For a moment Brumley’s countenance softened. “She was kind. Perhaps too kind. She spent most of her time involved with her charities or visiting with me. Balls never interested her. No, I cannot even fathom how she came to be in that area.”

“Did she know Miss Fortescue?” Perry asked.

“Everybody knew Miss Fortescue,” Brumley replied dryly. “But Amelia had little to do with her. I cannot form a connection there either, beyond a vague association.”

After fifteen minutes, they’d gleaned what they could from the earl. He saw them to the door of his study, then paused. “You’ll tell me? If you find who did this? I should like to know.”

And in that instant, Garrett saw not a man in a wheeled chair, but a man who could and would take revenge. A hard man with years of killing behind him. Someone who might not have risen to the position of earl through happenstance.

“As soon as they are taken into custody,” he replied.

Brumley would have to be satisfied with that.

The afternoon was clouding over as they left the building. “So Miss Keller’s a saint and Miss Fortescue is a sinner,” Perry murmured. “And there’s little connection between them.”

“That he knew of,” Garrett replied. “Why those two girls? And why the factory? How does that play into this?”

“Time to go back to the factories then,” she said. “We need to find that connection.”

Five

The rocking of the carriage lulled him into a brief sleep during the journey back to the East End. By the time the carriage disgorged them into the bustling streets near the factories, workmen swarmed the streets, heading home—or to the nearest pub—for the rest of the day. He and Perry worked their way through the costermongers and barrow boys, questioning them about anything they might have seen that morning, before meeting back by the corner of Craven Street and Old Bailey. It was cold work, and though he didn’t feel it as strongly as a human, he tried to breathe some warmth back into his cupped hands.

“No luck?” Perry asked him.

“Someone mentioned a creature prowling these streets that he called ‘Steel Jaw.’ He reeked of gin though, so I’m not inclined to believe him.”

“Steel Jaw?”

“Someone along the vein of Spring-Heeled Jack.” Garrett shrugged. There were dozens of so-called mythic creatures and devilish murderers prowling the stews.

“Ha’penny for your luck, guv!”

Garrett stopped in his tracks, his attention focusing on a brash young lad sitting on the stoop of a disused shop. The moment their eyes met, the boy jerked his chin with a wink. “Why, a rum cove like you, bet you’re sharper ’n a shiv.” He gestured to the box crate set up in front of him with three chipped cups on it. Swiping one cup out of the way, he revealed a bottle cap and then tossed it in the air. “Think you can guess which cup she’s under?”

A second later the bottle cap was gone and the cups were in motion, dancing under the boy’s nimble fingers.

Garrett knelt down, leather straining over his knees. “This one?” he asked with a slightly questioning lilt, tapping the middle cup.

The lad snatched it out of the way, revealing the bottle cap. “Aw, strike me blind, guv. They says you gotta watch you Nighthawks. Here, again. A flatch, sir?”

“You’ve got deep pockets,” Garrett drawled, reaching inside his coat for his change purse. He flipped a brightly polished ha’penny onto the top of the crate. “What’s your name, lad?”

“Tolliver.”

“Off you go then, Tolliver. Let’s see how good you are.”

The cups started their madcap dance. Perry stepped closer, leaning over Garrett’s shoulder to watch. For a moment he almost forgot what he was doing, feeling her breath on the back of his neck.

“Which one, sir?”

“Hmm.” He reached out, hand hovering over one of the cups. Then the other. The lad’s eyes brightened but his expression stayed the same. He might have been all of eight.

“This one,” Garrett said, picking the cup on the right.

The bottle cap gleamed underneath it. The lad begrudged him the chink, and Garrett tapped the crate to say, “Again.”

“You do know thimble-rigging’s illegal?” Perry murmured under her breath. “Why are you encouraging him?”

Because he knew what it was like to have no other way to earn coin. The prince consort’s brutal crush on the streets dated back to Garrett’s time as a lad, when the prince had been nothing more than an advisor to the king, before he’d overthrown him and married the young princess. Humans became little more than cattle then, the blood taxes doubling, and even honest men forced to supplement their trade with dishonest work.

Or children.

Garrett tapped the crate. The cups moved faster this time, the boy determined. Any man watching would barely be able to tell which cup was which. Garrett won another coin. And another, disappearing them into his coin purse. The boy’s brows drew together, the world vanishing around them as he moved ever quicker. “And now?” Tolliver challenged.

“I think…I think it’s right…here,” Garrett said, flicking the bottle cap out of the crease between his thumb and palm and tossing it on the crate.

The boy gaped as the bottle cap danced a jig. Then he snatched up the cup he thought it was under. Empty. The other two yielded the same results. “Blimey, ’ow’d you…” The thimble-rigger’s voice trailed off, his eyes narrowing. “You bloomin’ cheat! You think I’m gulpy? You owe me five ha’pennies.”

Garrett fetched them out with a smile, holding out his hand. The boy cupped his palms underneath and the ha’pennies poured forth, along with a couple of shillings, and even a pound note or two. They vanished just as swiftly.

“Good show,” Garrett said. The boy gaped up at him, a hole in his ragged coat.

“’Ere, ’ow’d you do that?”

“You got used to me tapping the crate,” Garrett replied, feeling generous. “You didn’t even see me swipe it.”

“Aye, but you ain’t s’posed to—”

“Nick it?” Garret asked, with a faintly amused grin. “That’s because you didn’t expect it.”

A smile split that smudged face. “Thought you was a Night’awk, not a broadsman.”

“Weren’t always,” Garrett countered, tipping his head toward the north. “Grew up in Bethnal Green. Dipped my share of pockets. This your stretch?”

“Aye. Lease it good an’ proper off Billy the Pyke.”

A self-appointed landlord, no doubt. “Lot goin’ on with them drainin’ factories. Were you round abouts when they went up?”

The boy launched into an excited diatribe about the night the humanists burned down the draining factories, complete with expansive hand gestures. “…Like the fires o’ ’ell, all blazin’! Why, you could see nigh on nothin’ for miles, there were so much soot and coal in the air.”

“Bet you see a great deal, hmm?”

“Everythin’ on this stretch. Keep me nose out for Old Tom Piper.”

“And them murders. More excitement by the look of it.”

“Bloody nobs,” the lad agreed. “They says them girls were of the Great ’Ouses, if’n you can believe.”

“Aye, I can. You see anythin’ this mornin’?”

The lad shook his head. “Only the usual. Old Man Mallory up and about, Mr. Sykes, and the milkman passin’—”

“Mr. Sykes?” Garrett frowned. “The overseer?”

“Stopped in at half two. ’Ad a lush dove with him, both of ’em swayin’ like they was three sheets. No doubt she charged double. He’s no flash gent.”

“He took a whore back to the factory with him?” Garrett’s voice sharpened. The logbook had indicated that Sykes had signed off at six the previous evening and not returned.

“’Appens regular-like. Got an ’earty appetite, ’e does.”

“Did you see them come out?” Perry asked.

Tolliver shook his head. “It were cold enough to freeze me old Nebuchadnezzar, so I were ’uddled right back under the stoop. Mighta missed it.”

“What did she look like?” Garrett asked.

“A whore. Rouged up and wearin’ a heavy cloak.” Tolliver shrugged. “It were cold.”

There was nothing else to be had. Garrett slipped the urchin his coin and told him where to find him if he remembered anything else.

“I bet Sykes didn’t enter that in the logbook,” Garrett murmured, leading Perry toward the factory. “Ten quid the ‘whore’ was Miss Keller.”

The feel of a set of eyes on him turned his head.

“What?” he asked, enjoying the look in Perry’s eyes.

“What was all that?”

“The people here don’t always trust Nighthawks. To them, we’re naught more than the Echelon’s fist. Now he knows I was one of his once. Besides, he needs the coin more than I do.” No doubt the poor little blighter slept on that stoop at night, something Garrett had firsthand knowledge of himself.

The draining factories loomed ahead, abandoned shells with workmen hustling over them like beetles on a carcass. Indeed, each bare spar looked like broken ribs, sheared off at the midpoint.